


no leading.

by ostagar



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Face-Sitting, Femdom, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 00:34:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3708679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ostagar/pseuds/ostagar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>alistair has a lot of worries and brosca wants to ease those tensions.</p><p>aka, bad things happen when alistair leads, so brosca does instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no leading.

**Author's Note:**

> there aren't many sub!alistair fics so, uh, this is my contribution. i know there are some pacing issues with this piece, and i apologize for it.

Alistair never sleeps – not if he can help it. Tea and bouts of anxiety dull the need, keep him alone with his thoughts. He’s memorized the dull glow of the campfire, how it outlines the entire camp. Everyone sleeps soundly (Wynne in her small hammock, Morrigan off to her tent, and so on), and their faces don’t look as contorted as he imagines his to be when he awakes in a fright.

Brosca sleeps. Brosca sleeps, eyes shut and arms wrapped around Alistair, as if this eases whatever tensions there are. Her stomach pressed against the curve of his spine, she can sometimes feel his breathing fluctuate, feel the nightmares shudder through him – if she’s awake, that is. It must be a luxury to _not_ dream, Alistair thinks, and not be plagued with nightmare.

Alistair twitches and kicks and pleads and mutters. His face twists and untwists itself, reminiscent of the Archdemon, reminiscent of Duncan. He slips out of her arms as she pretends to sleep, making his way to the campfire.

The light licks his face golden, as if there wasn’t enough of a flush to begin with. He eases his breathing, tries to bring it to a slow with steady inhales. Low whispers and mutters interrupt her sleep. Despite whatever semblance of exhaustion there is, she gets up, wrapping her arms around him.

His eyes are indicative of whatever troubles him. Her eyes are indicative that she wants to ease those tensions. Sat with his back atop a blanket and against a log, there are gentle touches, warm just by nature. His breaths are less heavy and he’s visibly calmer, though she repositions herself to sit in his lap, looking up at him. Soothing words are shared and, while thankful for her, there’s still the signature apprehension in his tone.

His fists are balled in his lap and he tries to shift, tries to dissipate the knot in his throat and the flush taking form on his neck. She looks him over, watches as a breath sputters out of him in short bursts.

It’s wholly unintentional and he wants to hide, wants to slink down and bury himself away and _oh, that fire looks awfully welcoming, maybe I’ll just jump in and save myself the embarrassment and----_

“I, ah—“ There’s a visible lump in his throat and he wants to apologize for the intrusive set-off (touch, intimacy in general, doesn’t make much to set him off).

Her gaze is hard, caught between confused and intrigued, the beginnings of a grin appearing. She leans back some, moves away from his lap and tries to part his folded legs. Alistair’s face only burns brighter (he can’t help it, either; there are involuntary splotches littered all over his body; licks of embarrassing pink on his skin).

When his legs finally part, there’s a sound in her throat (not a whine, but a thoughtful sound; a sound not all that different from the kind she would make in their tent, debating on whether or not she wants to leave a mark on him to be pointed out by Zevran or Morrigan the following day). Alistair stares at her, face red as can be, while still avoiding the maintenance of eye contact. While she had her suspicions, there’s a whole difference between _suspecting_ and _seeing_ : his erection visibly strains his wool undergarments.

“Wider?” she asks, though it’s more of a demand, hand urging to part his legs even further.

“I… Like this?”

“Wider,” she reiterates. He swallows hard. And he complies, legs spread and the woolen fabric being pressed against just by tension alone. There’s an impulse to quickly cover himself, to obstruct her vision of _him_ , but he’s certain that she’ll just swat his hands away anyhow.

“Good,” she says, a hum of encouragement. “Yer gonna be good for me, do what I say?”

He nods insistently, breaks eye contact, and turns a whole other shade of red that only she has the pleasure of seeing. “I—yeah, _yes_ , of course—I’ll be _so_ good, the best—“ Words are caught in his throat and he isn’t sure _how_ to do this dirty talking bit, but an effort’s made, at least.

She drags it out for as long as possible, fingers carefully running along his skin. His inner thigh ends up twitching and she tells him to be as still as possible, and he sucks in a breath of air. Her fingers hook just under his waistband, tease at that, and withdraw. She hovers just above it before looking back up at him. “Look at me.”

His hips move just barely, another uneasy breath being sucked in. He tilts his head back some, avoiding looking and instead turning his gaze to the night’s sky. “I—can’t.” It’s nervously said, out of fear that she’ll just _stop._ A hard glare from her and an anxious gulp later, his eyes are back to her and he’s certain that this is how he goes out.

“That’s it,” she says, voice low, as if she’s speaking into his inner thigh. “Yer good at listenin’, huh? Good at takin’ orders.”

And it’s a miracle that he’s even able to form anything even remotely incoherent, but he manages an: “Uh huh.”

She finally brushes up against him, rubbing him through the fabric of his trousers, albeit with not nearly as much as friction as he’d like. Her thumb presses just near the tip, his breath hitching. He’s finally ready to let go of whatever pent-up frustration there is, but he’s denied it. A true whine is expelled from his lips – not a low murmur, but something of deep frustration.

“Lie down,” Brosca tells Alistair, and he only stares. She props herself up on one knee to get a better positioning, peeling her top off, sticky with sweat. They’re in something of a secluded area, but that doesn’t lessen his apprehensions about being caught in the act – because that’s just what he needs, to be caught in the middle of a moment of intimacy like this. “Y’can be quiet, can’t you?”

Alistair swallows hard, uncertain if he can. He wonders if she’ll stop if he says _no_. He wonders if they’ll be caught if he says _yes_. He only stares, blinking twice. “What if we get _caught—_ “

They’re in a secluded enough space, with logs covering most of them, but his point still persists: how embarrassing will it be if they’re caught?

“We won’t if y’can stay _quiet_.”

And, still, he doubts his ability – he wants to voice just how insistent is, wants to voice his apprehensions, wants to explain everything all at once, but the only thing that’s remotely explanatory is his reddening face.

It almost comes as a surprise, and he still has the same awe-struck face that he’s always had. At the sight of her in all her bareness except for flimsily obstructive panties, his lips part and let out a brief gasp (a quick _Ma- **ker**_ ).

With an anticipating smirk, she frames either side of his face with her thighs, leaning forward. The heat from a warm breath fans against her, something of a shiver shooting up her spine. There’s eagerness and a vague flush on her face, though hardly comparable to Alistair’s.

It starts off slow, something of a rhythmic roll of hips. It’s… unusual for him, given that her panties are still _on_ , but his tongue still tries to desperately press against her. The fabric is absolutely obstructive and it’s inhibiting, to an extent, when he wants to do more – and he’s almost certain that she knows that, trying to get him to work.

After a moment or two and some groaning, she slides them off, coming off at her ankles. Yet again, she eases into it, makes Alistair angle his head in a desperate attempt to press his tongue into her. The rhythm builds back up again and, with his tongue barely just prodding at her, she finds herself wanting more, somehow refraining from bucking her hips right then and there – she’s gotten awfully good at that, at denying both her _and_ Alistair the pleasure, and it only makes it the more rewarding when she finally does succumb.

Sometimes it’s lost on him: whether he should service her or let her make the move. She’s unsurprisingly slick in her arousal and a prompt lick earns him an encouraging hum. It’s a slow rhythm, with his tongue not always making contact unless she moves close enough, but he takes what he can get. His tongue flicks whenever he can, starting off tentative but turning into something with fervor.

As much as she’d like to continue teasing Alistair, she decides to give in, half-breaking the rhythm. She stops, leans forward some, hands bracing on the ground in front of her. She lets out an accidental whine as she begins to sink down on his tongue. She leans forward, hips rocking and near-silent hums spilling from her lips.

She doesn’t necessarily let him use his tongue tentatively. Her hips begin rocking in a way that betrays her previously careful movements, and they’re now more rough and desperate. Alistair’s face is buried between her legs, tongue firmly stuck out. Her hands dig into his scalp, getting a better grip on him as she grinds herself into his face and tugs at his hair. Her hips rock with a certain eagerness, swaying back and forth as she revels in the chance to work against his tongue.

Though he would only stammer and blush profusely were he asked, there’s something satisfying about seeing her like this: the roll of her hips, the sway of her breasts, the pleased smile. The pacing of her hips is steady yet not quite frantic, determined to maintain an unwavering rhythm. There’s a low sound of surprise as she pulls away, repositions herself – and an accidental whine from her as she wants to just sink back onto him.

Her chest now pressed to his, she can feel more carefully how his stomach fluctuates with each touch, how tight muscle moves in shivers. She almost wishes she was facing him as she begins to touch him, to see the exact shade of red on his face and just how he struggles to stifle each individual gasp. He’s pressed against his trousers in a way that is sorely taut, and there are involuntary twitches. An uneasy breath out— she hovers a breath above his length— an _uneasier_ breath out.

She sucks at him through the fabric of his trousers for a moment, though it’s scarce, only enough to make Alistair want more. He chews on his lower lip to stifle a groan, his hips involuntarily moving. Brosca rubs him through it, still not allowing him the relief that he so desperately wants. There’s another teasing lick and his hips jerk again; she holds him still.

Nearly every time, it’s this way. Nearly every time, he wants to groan out and whine, wants to tell her how badly he wants it. He wants to tell her that this is comparable to torture, but all he can do is buck his hips and hope for the best. Somehow, as much as it might pain him, it seems to make the end all the more rewarding.

A finger finally hooks around the band of his trousers, beginning to tug them down. There’s something of a relieving sigh from him, though she only continues to go painfully slow: a teasing lick on the base of his length, a hovering breath here and there. It goes on for some time before her lips actually wrap around him and, when she does, there’s a too-embarrassing gasp from Alistair, nervous that someone might wake.

Her hand works him as she licks and kisses what isn’t covered. She kisses his head and he twitches again. She takes him into her mouth further, giving the base of his length a squeeze. He’s ready to loudly whine out, but he puts those intentions elsewhere. As she leans forward to suck him, he finds himself working more to reach her – and, yet, as he begins to kiss fervently, Brosca finds herself sitting back on his face, rocking and humming.

She’s slick, desperate and needy in a way that he only wishes he could get used to; it’s overwhelming, but he isn’t complaining about the urgency. His hands come up to press hardly against her hips, holding her there momentarily. He licks, he delves, he desperately kisses the juncture between hip and thigh and everything in between. Heavy panting turns into a shudder of a breath, trailing off into low whimpers. It’s all uncontrollable now: the rapid heartbeats, the beads of sweat, the drawn-out moans, the inevitable spasms.

Both of their hips stop rolling, beginning to come to a pleased slow. He thinks that he might be able to stay there for a while, basking in her, but she lifts trembling legs and settles beside him on the lain-out blanket. There’s a tired satisfaction settling in and, through winding-down gasps, she kisses him on the cheek.

Brosca exhales deeply and turns to look at Alistair, eyes vaguely incredulous. “I didn’t know y'could do that.”

“Yes, well,” he begins, trying to appear cool but failing miserably, “neither did I.”

She only shakes her head in a silent laugh.


End file.
